A House Where No One Leaves
by Ritual Union
Summary: Severus Snape prided himself first and foremost on his ability to stay calm in the most dire of situation. He was always able to maintain his sense of control. His sense of character. But of all the things that had moved him to the state of fury that he was currently in, of all the people that could possibly awaken the comatose state of his heart, it had to be Him.
1. Asphyxiated

_Harry Potter and all related content belong to J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement intended. _

_**Author's Note:**__ Just an idea, waiting to bloom…_

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**A HOUSE WHERE NO ONE LEAVES**

_Severus Snape prided himself first and foremost on his ability to stay calm in the direst of situations. In front of his colleagues, in front of the old man, Dumbledore, in front of the Dark Lord—he was able to maintain his sense of control. His sense of character. But of all the things that had moved him to the state of fury that he was currently in, of all the people that could possibly awaken the comatose state of his heart, it had to be _him.

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**Chapter One, Asphyxiated**

Harry Potter knew he was in trouble. The Dursley's where due to come back at any moment, and where was he? Locked out on the front porch, outside the front door—the exact _opposite_ side of where he was meant to be. It hadn't been Harry fault, though. He'd been cooped up inside his room for half the summer. A whole month! And he'd had every valid reason to want to sneak out of the house. Now, though, Harry was beginning to regret his decision. His stomach was frighteningly empty, and in his head were the beginnings of a terrible migraine.

If only Dumbledore had sent any word allowing him to go to the Burrow before the start of their sixth year. Then he would at least have _something _to look forward to instead of waiting every night for sleep to come to him…but September first was slowly drawing closer, and with it came a sense of understanding: that no matter what Harry said or did, Dumbledore would not listen to his pleas. When had he ever listened before? It had always been what _other _people though was best for Harry, never what he wanted.

He shook his head, trying to contain the anger that was building up inside of him. He stared out into the street, not quite holding off the familiar feeling of sadness that always seemed to follow him. The neighborhood was quiet and empty; most families had gone out for a trip, just as the Dursley's had. The faint sound of traffic reached his ears, but nothing else.

Out of habit he rubbed his index finger and thumb from both hands, wondering what he was to do next. He sighed and bit his lip. Not for the first time this summer, Harry felt lost…misplaced…as though he didn't belong anywhere. Not here, at this very doorstep where he was dropped years ago. Not in the Wizarding world, which isolated him for something he did before he was even able to walk. He just didn't fit in. And the one place that he'd been looking forward to calling home, the one person he had found that he could call _family_…

Harry bit his lip again, hard until he felt the skin tear. A sob died in his throat. He didn't want to relive those moments. He didn't want to feel that anymore. It was suffocating. If only he hadn't been so foolish!

He straightened at the sound of a car coming down the driveway. Hastily, he cleared his face, smoothed out his shirt, and turned to face the Dursley's.

"What in the devil are you doing out here, boy?" Uncle Vernon said as he got out of the car. His face was already beginning to purple, as it usually did whenever Harry was near him. Dudley wandered over with a smirk.

"Got locked out," Harry said, not having the energy to lie.

"Got locked out?" Uncle Vernon sneered. "Well, you shouldn't have been out here in the first place you _undeserving_ little—!"

"Vernon, the neighbors…" Petunia whispered.

Vernon turned around to look, but there was no one in sight. Vernon grunted, gave one last glare at Harry, and ushered his wife inside before him. Dudley, who'd just started growing hard muscle on top of all the fat that surrounded him, knocked his shoulder against Harry. Harry was thrown back and, unable to catch himself, fell on top of the rose bushes on the side of the porch. The front door closed with a snap.

Grimacing, Harry disentangled himself from the thorns and plucked them away where they had pierced his arms. He began the process of fixing the rose bush as best he could, almost welcoming the burning from his small open wounds so that he wouldn't feel the pounding in his skull or the ache in his chest. Eventually he was let inside. He went to his room, closed the door, and sat, as he had done for the past month, at the chair by his wooden desk.

Harry wondered if this was any way to live. And on the eve of his sixteenth birthday he was sure—as he stared at the darkening sky outside his window—that it was not.

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	2. Aggravated

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**Chapter Two, Aggravated**

"The boy is being _starved_ for God's sake," Severus said, pacing at the front of the Headmaster's desk. It had been a month and a half since the end of term, a month and a half since Severus had been tasked to trail the Headmaster's favorite _pet_. "Why have you not taken him away from that place? He'll die of starvation before the start of term. Which, might I remind you, is only a few weeks away?"

"Severus, I had not realized how much you've grown to care for 'the boy,'" Dumbledore said with an infuriating twinkle in his eyes.

Severus narrowed his eyes dangerously. "I am merely observing and stating facts. Do not twist my words around. If you wanted someone to worry about the state of your favorite student, then you should have sent someone else to guard him! Send the werewolf! For all that I care, I'm surprised you even chose me to guard that insolent brat."

"We cannot take him away from there, Severus. As you know, Harry is safest where his mother's protection will hold. Until the age of seventeen, Harry will always be safe there," Dumbledore said firmly. Severus, having heard this countless times before, merely scowled. It seemed, as always, there would be no changing the man's decisions.

Dumbledore sat calmly at his desk, his hands folded neatly on top of it. "I trust you, Severus, to do whatever it takes to protect him, however much you think badly of him."

Severus didn't bother to answer, it would only earn him a headache trying to argue with the man. Instead, Severus turned the direction of their conversation, "Headmaster, have you taken your potion?"

The headmaster glanced down his half-moon spectacles, at his hands which were still clasped. His right hand had blackened and shriveled, the result of the curse on Marvolo's ring. "I have. And forgive me for having to ask you that I am in need of another set."

"I'll have it ready tomorrow morning."

With that, Severus excused himself and left the office, walking down the spiraling staircase, his black robes billowing in his wake.

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	3. Awakening

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**Chapter Three, Awakening**

Harry spent the next three days in much the same state. His room was a mess. Scattered pages of the Daily prophet were strewn about; pages he'd read over and over again, worrying himself sick over the fact that Death Eater incidents had been increasing and spilling over into the Muggle world. Even the Dursley's had noticed how much everything seemed to be changing around them, though they weren't smart enough to link two and two together. The weather had turned bleak, sudden, and a familiar mist hung over the city, pressing down on all of its inhabitants.

Not for the first time, Harry wondered why he hadn't had any face-to-face contact over the summer. Aside from the days soon after his godfather's death, Dumbledore hadn't spoken to him. His words were still in his head, though. Words that he didn't want to hear. That he was the Chosen One. That the prophecy and Voldemort had chosen Harry as the final enemy. Had given him a scar for it. That the whole reason that his parents were dead, was because of Voldemort's irrational _fear_.

Harry hadn't slept much in days. He missed his friends; he missed Hogwarts. He couldn't stay in his room. He was restless. And so he was venturing out again. It was nighttime and the Dursley's were fast asleep. Harry had received birthday letters from Hermione and Ron and Hagrid two weeks ago, but there hadn't been any mention of when they would try to get Harry out of there. Not that there was any point now. With only two weeks left until the start of term, Harry realized there wouldn't be any visits to the Burrow.

It was turning out to be a summer much like the year before, if not worse, and Harry wondered whether Dumbledore had told his friends to refrain from any contact with him again. Harry hadn't replied back to them.

He reached a deserted playground, on that he'd often visit before, and sat himself upon a swing. The chains were cold on his hands and slowly he rocked himself back and forth. The swings creaked at every movement. The reality of his situation was unbearable. If he was supposed to be the one to defeat Voldemort, why haven't they started giving him proper lessons in fighting and defense? At the rate Dumbledore kept hiring new Defense professors, Harry would never learn anything useful!

He stilled his movements abruptly when he heard rustling in the shadows of the trees. But it was too dark to see past a few yards in front of him; the street lights were dim, and the light of the moon was obstructed, signaling a summer storm. Harry narrowed his eyes as another rustling came from behind him. He stood up and reached into the waistband of his jeans. Wand now safe in his hand, Harry fought to remain calm. Voldemort wouldn't dare to try something right in the middle of Little Whinging.

Another rustling sounded and out of pure instinct, Harry called for his shield against a violent flash of red thrown in his direction. Harry gasped as his shield shattered violently, the force of his opponent's spell throwing him of his feet and onto paved ground. He ignored the bruising pain on his back and scrambled to his feet just as another jet of red whistled past his ear. Angered, Harry sent his own stunning spell in the direction of the cloaked figure, but the spell was easily blocked.

Harry's heart was racing in his chest; he barely managed to dodge another curse, but it fueled him. He would not die tonight, in a duel with a nameless figure. He fired off another stunner, and another, walking closer to the figure silhouetted under the shade of a tree. In any other instance, Harry would've considered his moves reckless, but at the moment he didn't care. He was angry. Angry at Dumbledore, angry at his friends, angry at his _life. _He fired off an Expelliarmus and it shot out of his wand. The man—for he was clearly a man—raised his wand and the spell rebounded. It caught him off guard; the spell hit him squarely in the chest and he was once again flying off his feet, hitting the ground hard. His wand clattered somewhere too far for him to reach. He scrambled to get up again but stopped, a wand pointed only inches from his face.

"I finally have the _honor_ of meeting the famous Harry Potter," a smooth voice said from behind the mask of a Death Eater. He wore a black cloak, draped over his shoulders, covering his entire body up to his wrists.

Harry scowled. "Apologies that I can't say the same about you."

The man chuckled darkly. Icy-blue eyes peered through the mask, making Harry shiver. "The Dark Lord was right. Such a feisty one, aren't you?"

Harry's eyebrows furrowed at the tone, but he remained silent. Was this it then? Not even having a chance to face Voldemort in the end? Harry felt a tingling of unease. Just then he took notice of something in the man's hand. A silver vial with a needle at the tip. A syringe? The vial held a dark red liquid and Harry didn't want to know what the contents were made for.

He braced himself and pushed forward, his hands at the man's shoulders. He fell back with a curse and Harry managed to dart away. But it was too dark to see where his wand had fallen. He was hit with a leg-binding spell not a second later, and he smacked to the ground face first. Then he felt the man's weight on top of him.

"No, get off me!" Harry hissed. A hard knee held his legs down and an arm draped across his back to keep him still.

"Don't worry, Harry. This won't hurt a bit," the smooth voice purred.

"Shut up. Don't—!" Harry gasped as the needle pierced his neck. It burned through his skin and he could almost feel the beats that his heart missed as the liquid poured through his veins. He tried to push the man away again but his limbs were frozen, paralyzed by the poison.

Suddenly there was a flash of red through his half-closed eyelids; the street beneath him shook. The hold on his back slackened and he could hear the words, "We'll meet again soon, Harry," before the weight left all together. There was a familiar crack of disapparition.

He knew someone was calling out to him, but Harry couldn't respond. He couldn't think. His blood was boiling underneath him, spasms of painful electricity making him cry out. His body shook. He thought he recognized the voice that surrounded him. Fought to recognize the concern behind it that had never been there before. He whimpered as the syringe that had still been pieced at his neck was pulled out, and after a moment he heard the vial shatter as it hit the hard ground. He felt hands turn him over, on his back, and though the world spun, Harry could make out a pale face. Dark locks. And the darkest eyes that seemed almost endless. His insides were melting, on fire, he was sure, and soon he welcomed the darkness that enveloped him.

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	4. Inheritance

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**Chapter Four, Inheritance**

When Harry came back into consciousness he didn't feel any better. Every inch of his body felt bruised, as if he'd fallen off the top of the Astronomy tower. But what was unsettling him the most was the feeling of his magic throbbing just under his skin. He felt feverish. Hot. He felt his magic at the very tips of his fingers, almost burning. He felt it swirling in his abdomen, in his chest, his throat; it burned the area around his eyes. He tried to open them, he saw nothing. He took in a shaky breath and his lungs seared. His magic pulsed with every breath and every heartbeat, as if his magic was trying to break free and consume him. He struggled again to open his eyes, to move, to run away from his crazed magic. He wanted out.

Cold hands seized him by the shoulders. He cried out. Voices were talking to him, but Harry could not, for the life of him, understand the words. He lashed out at the prying hands, yelled until his voice felt sore and soon he felt a blanket of unfamiliar magic washing over him, calming him down, and he welcomed the darkness that overcame his mind.

The next time Harry awoke, it was to the sound of muffled voices around him. His brain was pounding and his throat felt raw. He didn't bother opening his eyes, which he was sure would require a tremendous effort. He focused in on the voices.

"What if we don't find a cure, Headmaster?" asked a worried voice that Harry vaguely recognized as Madam Pomfrey's. "This could be very dangerous for him."

Was he in the hospital wing, then? It certainly smelled like the hospital wing. Clean, anesthetized. He felt an inkling of relief wash over him and almost immediately it left him. He didn't think getting ambushed by a Death Eater was any way to get himself back to Hogwarts. He gathered he must've been in a lot of trouble to have been brought straight to the school as opposed to being dropped back off at the Dursley's. Not that Harry was complaining or anything.

With no little effort, Harry focused back on the conversation surrounding him.

"—can't say that we will be able to find a cure," came the voice of Professor Dumbledore. "At any rate, we cannot know the extent of damage Harry has suffered until he awakens. For now I will suggest that you rest, Poppy. Thank you for your help." There was an exchange of goodnight's and Madam Pomfrey's footsteps died away.

Harry frowned the tiniest bit. Extent of damage? What exactly had that poison done to him? On the verge of opening his eyes and facing Dumbledore, Harry paused. He heard the door of the infirmary open and another set of footsteps, quiet and swift, came towards the bed.

"I gather everything's in order?" Dumbledore asked the newcomer.

"The appropriate parties have been notified, if that is what you are asking," Snape's cool voice sounded at the foot of Harry's bed.

"Good, good…"

"There is no known antidote for the poison he has been injected with," Snape continued. "You know this, Headmaster. It's only a matter of time—"

"I'm sure we'll find a cure, Severus. Of that I am positive."

"Did you not just listen to my words? _There is no antidote_. All the magic that the insolent br—"

"Severus."

"—that the _boy _would've gained throughout his entire life is being given to him in the span of who knows how long! He won't be able to control it! Furthermore, we don't know what kind of damage the poison had done to his body. He's a danger to the school and to the students!"

Harry swallowed involuntarily but otherwise, remained unmoving and silent.

"_Harry_ is a strong young man," Dumbledore said, "and I have all the confidence that he will manage to pull through his ordeal. With the right guidance, what happened tonight does not have to cripple him."

"With the _'right guidance_?'"

Harry found it easy to imagine Snape's teeth bared in displeasure.

"Yes. Someone to guide him through the coming obstacles."

"And am I to assume you already have someone in mind?" Snape's voice had lowered an octave.

"Yes," Dumbledore said matter-of-factly. "You."

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_Author's Note: Thank you all so much for the support/reviews! :3_


	5. Unbearable

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**Chapter Five, Unbearable**

"Mr. Potter, you've not taken more than two bites of your meals all day. Try to eat a little more or you won't be able to handle the stress of your magic."

Harry looked down at his tray of dinner, exhausted. He'd barely touched the chicken soup that Madame Pomfrey had given him half an hour ago. He felt sick, as he had all day. His magic had gone haywire, causing episodes where he was accidentally lashing out at his surroundings. The rare moments in between when he seemed to be in control were spent trying to fuel his body. But it wasn't working. He couldn't stomach more than a few bites of his food, and the medicine and potions he'd been required to take weren't helping on that front. What was more, the incessant thrum of his magic was distracting, overwhelming even during his calmest moments, that it wasn't allowing him any sort of concentration for too long.

"Sorry," he said mechanically. "I'm not hungry."

Madame Pomfrey nodded in understanding. Harry looked away as the tray of food disappeared from his lap, the shield that they had placed around him shimmering as it happened. Harry didn't want to meet the gaze of pity that Madame Pomfrey had been throwing his way since that morning, ever since Dumbledore had placed the protective shield around him not for _Harry's _safety, but for anyone around him. He nodded at the firm order to stay in bed, and Madame Pomfrey bid him goodnight.

Harry sighed when the door to her office closed with a light snap. He moved to stand. His legs were shaky but they managed to hold his weight as he walked towards the infirmary's lavatory. A look into the cracked mirror made him wince. He looked awful—frighteningly pale, too thin, and his dark circles were prominent against the shine of his eyes. It was probably an after-effect of the poison, but his eyes remained undilated for longer than normal, making him squint in order to be able to see properly in the near darkness. When he tilted his head to the side, exposing his neck, he caught sight of the injection area, right at the meeting point between his left shoulder and the bottom of his neck. It was an angry red, throbbing, and the small veins surrounding it were dark and purple as though they were infected. Which they were, Harry mused with another tired sigh.

He made his way back to bed, realizing belatedly that the trip to the lavatory had cost him more energy than if he'd done a running lap across the Quidditch pitch. He sat down heavily, trying to control his breathing. He hadn't had much time to consider what would happen to him now—if the conversation he heard the previous night between Dumbledore and Snape was true. And to be honest, Harry didn't really want to think about it. The thought of being incapacitated with this poison was too much to handle. What if his magic got the better of him? What if he accidentally hurt somebody? What if he hurt his friends?

He closed his eyes; his head was hurting, his body ached, but he couldn't sleep yet. Dumbledore had told him that he'd be visiting tonight, to better explain the situation. He had actually come earlier in the morning, after one of Harry's episodes had blown out half the windows in the infirmary. He hadn't answered any of Harry's questions concerning why he hadn't had any contact over the summer. In the end, Harry had given up asking, and announced he was feeling ill in order for Dumbledore to leave him alone. The headmaster had soon excused himself, raising the protective shield that now surrounded Harry, and had left him to rest.

When the entrance doors to the infirmary opened, Harry didn't check to see who it was. He sat cross-legged on his bed, pressing the palms of his hands together as a wave of nausea took over. This, too, had been present all day but thankfully Harry was able to keep himself in check. He nodded when the headmaster greeted him.

"You need your rest, Harry, so I will try to make this meeting short and quick," Dumbledore said to him as he conjured up a chair and sat down. "Have you had any more episodes?"

"Not since this afternoon," Harry answered.

Dumbledore nodded and said, "Harry, my dear boy, th—"

"I know what the poison is doing to me," Harry interrupted, not wanting to waste time walking around the subject. He didn't look at Dumbledore as he said this, but down at his hands, which shook from the strain of his magic. "And I know there's no cure."

"There is an antidote to every poison. I'm sure that we will find it in time."

Harry didn't answer. The pounding in his head increased. "Were you able to find out who it was? The Death Eater?"

"No, but from what we've gathered it's safe to assume that he is a new recruit to Voldemort's Inner Circle."

"A new recruit? I'd no idea he was taking applications," Harry said, humorlessly. He wondered what the man would've done in order for Voldemort to accept him into his ranks. Then again, it could've been the attack on Harry that had proven the man worthy. Whatever the reason, Harry would make him pay. He refocused his attention on Dumbledore, who'd been speaking.

"—and we'll find out who he is soon. But on to more pressing matters, Harry, I have made arrangements with Professor Snape—"

"No!" Harry said loudly. He'd forgotten that Dumbledore meant for Snape to help Harry with his magic. "No, Headmaster, anyone but him."

"Professor Snape is the most qualified in these situations. He will be guiding you through the process of controlling your magic—"

Harry didn't mean to, but he scoffed. "Because he did so well teaching me Occlumency?" Harry shot at him without thinking. His anger bubbled. Didn't Dumbledore realize how much Snape hated Harry? Didn't he get enough of a hint that Harry and Snape would _never _be able to see eye to eye? Just the thought of being in Snape's presence outside of class filled Harry with anxiety. He clenched his fist around the sheets on his bed. Snape wouldn't be able to help him. Of that he was sure.

"Harry, you have to calm yourself."

Harry shook his head, reaching to cover his face in his hands. His breathing was coming harshly. His magic was bubbling at the surface of his skin and as much as Harry willed himself to calm down; he wasn't able to.

"Harry, listen to me! Listen…"

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